SAD thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabellas arms.
Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabellas morn
The sun propitious smild;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguild.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That Nature finest strung;
So Isabellas heart was formd,
And so that heart was wrung.
Dread Omnipotence alone
Can heal the wound he gave
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtues blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabellas spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.